We proceeded at a good sharp pace; and as we ascended the very high hill on the direct road to Caen, with fine leafy trees on each side, and upon a noble breadth of road, I looked out of the diligence to enjoy the truly magnificent view of the Seine—­with glimpses of Harfleur and Havre on the opposite coast.  The cessation of the rain, and the quick movement of the vehicle, enabled me to do this in a tolerably commodious manner.  The ground however seemed saturated, and the leaves glistened with the incumbent moisture.  There was a sort of pungent freshness of scent abroad—­and a rich pasture land on each side gave the most luxuriant appearance to the landscape.  Nature indeed seemed to have fructified every thing in a manner at once spontaneous and perfect.  The face of the country is pasture-land throughout; that is to say, there are comparatively few orchards and little arable.  I was told to pay attention to the cattle, for that the farmers prided themselves on their property of this kind.  They may pride themselves—­if they please:  but their pride is not of a lofty cast of character.  I have been in Lincolnshire, Herefordshire, and Gloucestershire—­and have seen and enjoyed, in these counties, groups of cattle which appeared calculated for the land and the table of giants, compared with the Lilliputian objects, of the bucoline species, which were straying, in thin flocks, through the luxuriant pastures of Normandy.  That triumphant and immutable maxim of “small bone and large carcase” seems, alas! to be unknown in these regions.

However, on we rode—­and gazed on all sides.  At length we reached Pont L’Eveque, a pretty long stage; where we dined (says my journal) upon roast fowl, asparagus, trout, and an excellent omelette, with two good bottles of vin ordinaire—­which latter, for four Englishmen, was commendably moderate.  During dinner the rain came down again in yet heavier torrents—­the gutters foamed, and the ground smoked with the unceasing fall of the water.  In the midst of this aquatic storm, we toasted Old England right merrily and cordially; and the conducteur, seeing us in good humour, told us that “we need not hurry, for that he preferred a dry journey to a wet one.”  We readily assented to this position; but within half an hour, the weather clearing, we remounted:  and by four o’clock, we all got inside—­and politics, religion, literature, and the fine arts, kept us in constant discourse and good humour as we rolled on for many a league.  All the way to Troarn (the last stage on this side of Caen) the country presents a truly lovely picture of pasture land.  There are occasionally some wooded heights, in which English wealth and English taste would have raised villas of the prettiest forms, and with most commanding views.  Yet there is nothing to be mentioned in the same breath with the country about Rodwell in Glocestershire.  Nor are the trees of the same bulk and luxuriant foliage as are